Breakfast at the Nephilim's
by GranddaugtherOgg
Summary: Here's a lil story about Strife taking his shirt off during a family breakfast. Turns out our boy's got Ink. Domestic life with the Four Horsemen and reader as an insert character. Nothing of a romantic nature really happens, it is only implied ever so subtly. Fluffy silly stuff. Here's to family values. Enjoy!


It took you a long time to persuade all Four to start their day with a proper meal. Everyone coming together in the morning, like a family should.

That's not exactly how it's usually done among the Nephilim, so there were obstacles in the way. The Horsemen don't have to eat to sustain themselves - but they sure can enjoy the sensation. And since the act of eating - and eating socially at that - seemed so important to you, their favourite human, one by one they budged.

Nowadays Strife is a confirmed pizza junkie. Fury got enamoured with super spicy eastern cuisine. Those positions on your local Indian food parlour menu that you can never touch, lest you want your ear wax to flow out? She savours them. With a side of kimchi.

War will devour any amount of meat or dairy. He prefers foods that are both nourishing and simple to make; you guys had so much fun at your last barbecue (especially when Ulthane had shown up, jovially carrying a freshly killed deer. Where the heck did the big guy find a deer?)

Death was the difficult one - he hasn't been eating anything in eons and as he stated "he's way too old to start doing weird things now." But you're quite sure it was him who snatched your 80% dark chocolate bar from the kitchen cabinet when no one was looking. Also, this man loves him some coffee.

So yeah, breakfasts are a thing now in the Nephilim household. Not on all days, but on most of them anyway.

As usual, everyone else is alreasy sitting at the table when Strife rolls in; groggy, dishevelled, sporting the most impressive bedhead you've ever seen.

"Morning", says War politely over his scrambled eggs.

"Hiya, brother." Strife lets out a yawn worth of a shark.

"Took you long enough. Rough night?" That's Death. And he's being coolly unimpressed over his coffee. Black, no sugar.

"Why hello to you too, Mr. Walking Shirtless Scene."

Death raises his eyebrows and curls his lips. You've seen this look so many times before. What follows usually is not anger, not by a long shot. Just sass.

"As someone wise once told me: if you've got it, gotta flaunt it."

You flush a little, because a) Death seldom lets go of his elegant (if a bit stand-offish) speech patterns, and b) he did it to quote you.

You told him just the thing. A few nights ago.

Strife doesn't take well to this boast. Or maybe he's just being Strife.

"Would you look at that jerk! I happen to possess a set of granite slab abs too, you know, I just don't parade them ALL THE TIME -"

"Strife" Fury cuts in a melodic, yet firm voice, "Shut up. People are trying to eat here. No one cares about your abs."

"Guys, please…" You're a little flustered, but try to diffuse the situation nonetheless. "Breakfast should not be the time for fights. It's not what it's for. Quite the opposite. And Strife…" You shot the grumpy Horseman an apologetic smile. "For the record, I do believe that your abs are great."

"Yes they are", he says decisively. "Check them out!"

And he takes his shirt off right where he stands, triumphantly tossing the garment away as if he were a rock star.

Death rolls his eyes, Fury lets out a disgusted cry („Oh, for Nine Hells sake, Strife!") and War chooses just this very moment to stop devouring his copious proteins and look up.

"Brother, why are you half naked?" There is genuine interest in his voice.

You start to laugh in your orange juice.

Yet you can't take your eyes away. Because lo and behold, Strife's got abs. And they sure are something else.

Unlike War, he's not built like a brick shithouse. Neither does he sport this sort of sinewy, predatory-looking, hulking physique that Death does. If you had to describe Strife in one short sentence, it would be:

„He has the body of a dancer."

An assasin-dancer, maybe. Sweeps you off your feet by the day, shoots monsters between the eyes by the night. That sort of thing.

What's more, he comes illustrated.

"So many pictures…" Fury let go of her indignation in a heartbeat; now she's kinda morbidly fascinated. "And words! Who the hell is Angela? Or Janice?"

Death gives out a raspy little chuckle. Which for him is a reaction as intemperate as ROTFL-ing covered in tears and nasal mucus.

War has fixed his dumbfounded stare on Strife's lower abdomen. You can tell that the Red Rider really, really wants to ask about this one tattoo. He's moving his lips, spelling the words out letter by letter in case he got it wrong the first time.

„P-A-R-T-Y-T-I-M-E."

"Janice…is a closed chapter" says Strife firmly, looking you in the eye. And then he cracks one of those little smiles. Gotta love this crazy, crazy guy.

You smile back and gesture over the table.

"Pancakes? But put your shirt on, please."

He does.


End file.
